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Hot snot

Damn it’s hot. This country is ridiculous. It freezes the balls off you in winter, burns the arse off you in summer. If I live here much longer there won’t be anything left.
I’m not sure if it’s even summer yet. I seem to remember previous years with similar temperatures in May getting the locals all excited, stripped off and running to their nearest FKK beach, ecstatic at the thoughts of three months naked, only for the real summer to put a dampener on their goosebumps and all the other bumps too.
The pollen’s struck again, just like it does every year. Its close ally, the wind, has whipped up a bit too to maximise the damage. This season always brings out the snot in me. Snot’s running like the Olympics, water’s gushing from eyes blinking in disbelief, swelling and reddening to the point of absurdity and my fucking nose-spray isn’t doing a damn thing.
It’s the one I used last year and the year before with some success, so I was confident it would bring relief against the dastardly pollen this year too but the dastardly pollen is evidently more dastardly than I’d been led to believe – doubly, triply or even quadruply dastardly – at which levels of dastardliness it’s best to just give up and go home.
Some fuckbag builders across the way have considerately started renovating the apartments on the other side of the road, so the incessant racket forces us to keep the balcony doors closed. Very nice of them. I’d love to return the favour sometime.
Despite their best efforts to help though, the pollen must be getting in through the letter box, along with the bills. If the pollen doesn’t make your eyes water, the bills will. It just never ends.

Spudnik Ó Fathaigh has called Berlin home since St. Patrick’s Day 2008, when he arrived doe-eyed and thirsty after a ferry from Ireland and long drive through France. The doe-eyes have since been surpassed by those of his son, as doe-eyed as they come, but the thirst is yet to be cured.
Three stolen bikes, innumerable bike-theft attempts, eight mobile phones and countless (and counting) Sternis later, der Irische Berliner – as he’s also known – spends his time poking his nose where noses aren't welcome and bestowing the benefits of his foul language and gutter speak on the locals.
Of course, he’s a local now too. When not working on amusing alliteration combinations or ignoring Betreten Verboten signs, Spudnik rants, rages and reports to the best of his frightening ability.